“You should be more like your twin brother, Harold.” Those were the last words my mother ever spoke as she lay upon her death bed. And in fact, she had said pretty much the same thing to me over and over in my life time. Yes my brother Johnson was a model of everything a man should be. He was successful, respected, good looking, virtuous, and even gutsy, but still I didn’t really want to be at all like him. Or maybe in some way I did, because I have been pretty happy taking up where he left off at the time of his death.
After my mother’s death, I moved out of her house and got my own apartment downtown, which of course Johnson paid for. Johnson himself lived with his beautiful wife, Penelope, in an affluent suburb in an enormous house on 35 wooded acres. He would invite me over sometime to hunt or watch a ball game. I was a frequent visitor at his house, even though I know I more or less drove him crazy. Johnson was a serious man who had a lot of social and professional responsibilities. Since discovering the cure for one type of blindness, my brother not only became very wealthy, but he became a kind of celebrity, and rightly so since he saved many thousands of people from suffering.
Johnson did have one defect however. He was kind of naïve and tended to be too trusting of people.
One autumn day, he and I went out into the woods to cut down trees for a children’s shelter he was building on the premises. We were also going to celebrate the arrival of fall by having a huge bonfire. As we headed of in different directions to cut down trees, I started to draw up my plan. Once I got out of his line of slight I went to work on a tree. Once the tree fell I let out a monstrous scream and yelled for help, exclaiming, “Johnson, come quick! This tree has fallen on me; please come save me!” As I expected, he came running over to save me. As soon as he got within range, I swung my axe at another tree that was ready to topple and that fell on his head. I quickly changed our clothing and ran out of the woods to tell Penelope that “Harold” had been wounded. After the Ambulance arrived and pronounced him dead, I continued to imitate Johnson, which I found easy to do since I had been studying him my entire life. It wasn’t easy to pretend to a famous medical doctor, but soon after the “accident” I used my “grief” as an excuse to retire from my practice. Penelope, who didn’t suspect a thing, wanted to help me get over my loss. It was she who suggested that we close up the house and travel the globe continuously. I was too good a husband to object.
After my mother’s death, I moved out of her house and got my own apartment downtown, which of course Johnson paid for. Johnson himself lived with his beautiful wife, Penelope, in an affluent suburb in an enormous house on 35 wooded acres. He would invite me over sometime to hunt or watch a ball game. I was a frequent visitor at his house, even though I know I more or less drove him crazy. Johnson was a serious man who had a lot of social and professional responsibilities. Since discovering the cure for one type of blindness, my brother not only became very wealthy, but he became a kind of celebrity, and rightly so since he saved many thousands of people from suffering.
Johnson did have one defect however. He was kind of naïve and tended to be too trusting of people.
One autumn day, he and I went out into the woods to cut down trees for a children’s shelter he was building on the premises. We were also going to celebrate the arrival of fall by having a huge bonfire. As we headed of in different directions to cut down trees, I started to draw up my plan. Once I got out of his line of slight I went to work on a tree. Once the tree fell I let out a monstrous scream and yelled for help, exclaiming, “Johnson, come quick! This tree has fallen on me; please come save me!” As I expected, he came running over to save me. As soon as he got within range, I swung my axe at another tree that was ready to topple and that fell on his head. I quickly changed our clothing and ran out of the woods to tell Penelope that “Harold” had been wounded. After the Ambulance arrived and pronounced him dead, I continued to imitate Johnson, which I found easy to do since I had been studying him my entire life. It wasn’t easy to pretend to a famous medical doctor, but soon after the “accident” I used my “grief” as an excuse to retire from my practice. Penelope, who didn’t suspect a thing, wanted to help me get over my loss. It was she who suggested that we close up the house and travel the globe continuously. I was too good a husband to object.